The nagging harrying of Altan’s army had continued as they’d proceeded eastward, but in the past few days, that annoyance had suddenly stopped. That alone was enough to make Altan uneasy. He’d sent a small advance party to Velimese the day before to consult with the town’s Voice and arrange for reprovisioning and supplies. The party hadn’t returned, which meant that the town must be approached with caution. Altan ordered Musa to spread out cohorts well to the north and south of the road, taking what they could from the farmlands they crossed, and to report if they met resistance.
The resistance became evident as they came within sight of the town. The road was blocked with fallen trees, and crude earthworks had been dug in a ragged arc to either side so that the war chariots could not easily pass. A small boulder was set at the end of the earthwork where it met the road. As Altan raised his hand to halt the advance short of easy arrow range, a man appeared on the earthworks alongside the boulder. His face was familiar, as was the armor he wore: the krug, the mirror armor of the Mundoa.
“Clansman MacÀidh,” Altan called out as Tolga reined in the horses, who reared at their constraint. “I had hoped that you would have taken my warning to you more seriously. It appears you’ve ignored it.”
“Aye, Commander Savas,” the man shouted back. “I have, and we’ve done more besides. Were you hoping to meet with the Voice of Velimese? I’m afraid you won’t find him particularly responsive.” MacÀidh bent down and picked up the boulder next to him, and Altan realized that it wasn’t a boulder but a head, which MacÀidh held by the hair. The man underhanded the gory thing toward Altan. It hit the bare earth of the road and rolled, stopping with its face and open mouth toward them. “There’s your Voice of Velimese, Commander. Go ahead and talk to him if you’d like. But he’s a rather quiet fellow now.”
A sad anger built in Altan, and he closed his eyes before he spoke. “I gave you your life back once, Clansman MacÀidh. That isn’t going to happen a second time. Not now.”
“Is that supposed to frighten me, Commander? It doesn’t.”
“Then you’re even more a fool than I believed you to be,” Altan answered. He gestured, and the archers behind the war chariots loosed arrows as MacÀidh scrambled down from the embankment. “Go right,” Altan shouted to Musa, then told his driver, Tolga, “Left!” Tolga lashed at the warhorses, and both he and Altan raised shields as arrows began to shower down from beyond the embankment. Half the war chariots and mounted soldiers followed Altan; the other half went with Musa. All of them raced around the arc of the earthen barricade as the officers of the infantry allowed the javelin-throwers to advance and hurl their weapons, then fall back through the formation as they urged their men forward along the road and over the embankment. Altan hung onto the chariot’s rail as Tolga turned sharply around the end of the mounded dirt.
Beyond it, he could see a few hundred men and women: some arrayed in armor and weapons obviously taken from the town’s garrison and the Voice’s guards, others simply waving axes, scythes, and other farm implements or improvised weapons. Altan shook his head. This is a rabble, not an army. There were no lines, no formations. There was no discipline to the mob, no officers shouting orders and directing their defense. Already, the field just behind the embankment was chaotic and bloody, with Altan’s soldiers hewing at the Cateni like they were a wheat field ready to be harvested. Altan could see the defenders already buckling, a few of those to the rear already dropping their weapons to flee.
This will be over quickly.
Altan’s gaze found MacÀidh, mounted on a war steed, a horse that Altan recognized as that of one of the envoys he’d sent to the Voice. The realization made the anger flare even more in Altan’s mind. He tapped Tolga on the shoulder and pointed at MacÀidh when the driver glanced back, thinking as he did so that this was something Lucian would have already done without words or contact. Lucian would simply have known. Tolga nodded and shouted to the horses. The chariot tore mud and grass from the ground as it surged forward, as Altan plucked a spear from the holder. MacÀidh’s attention was on the melee in front of him; his head turned belatedly as Altan’s chariot rushed toward him, as Altan hefted the spear and threw it. It struck the man with all the power of Altan’s arm and the speed of the chariot. Altan couldn’t see whether the blade had penetrated the man’s krug, but the impact of the weapon knocked him from his horse, which reared white-eyed and galloped away.
Under Tolga’s direction, MacÀidh’s body was trampled under the hooves of the warhorses and the iron-clad wheels of the chariot. As the chariot lifted, Altan leaped from the car, drawing his sword. With a single, savage stroke and a cry of victory, he struck MacÀidh’s head from his shoulders. He caught it as it fell and lifted it high, still shouting. Blood dripped heavily from the ruins of the man’s neck.
The nearest defenders, seeing what Altan held, now broke entirely, and the battle turned to rout, the Cateni retreating as the war chariots and mounted soldiers cut them down and the infantry pursued them.
There were no Cateni left alive on the field when Altan returned to Tolga and his chariot and rode into Velimese.
The quartet of scouts Altan had sent out from Velimese returned at a gallop to the night’s encampment between Velimese and Siran three days later, their horses lathered with foam and nearly dead from a hard ride. The news from Siran was better than Altan had hoped; the Cateni there had also rebelled, but the Voice and his garrison had been able to subdue the insurrection and kill the leaders. Siran was still in Mundoan hands, but Trusa … “From what we heard, Trusa has been burned to the ground,” the scouts told him. “Everyone is saying that Great-Voice Vadim was killed, that Ceanndraoi Voada executed him.”
“And now her forces have turned south,” Altan said, anticipating what they would tell him. The south is undefended and open to their ravages, and the Cateni there are ready to rise with them.
But the scouts were shaking their heads, dissolving the thought. “No, Commander. They haven’t gone south. They’re on the march toward Siran. Toward us.” All the scouts nodded, their faces pale and serious. “We saw them, Commander. They … they fill the land. More of them than can be counted. Far more than we have with us.”
After questioning the scouts further, Altan dismissed them. Around him, the camp was bustling as tents were taken down and stored in the dawn light. They were surrounded by low hills and forest draped in tendrils of fog. He might have found the sight idyllic and meditative, coming upon it at some other time. Not now. He turned to Musa, whose scarred face was twisted into a scowl. “Not south?” Altan grunted. “Why? The southern cities were theirs for the taking, unprotected.”
Musa shrugged. “The draoi bitch Voada is overconfident. That’s fine with me. So we go and meet them. I’ll look forward to that; we can pay them back for all that they’ve done. Look at the buffoons we just routed.”
The sun was rising above the haze, promising a warm day, though Altan saw clouds massing behind them in the west—he suspected it would be raining by the time they stopped again. To the east, the sky was blue and open, as if nothing troubling awaited them there.
“You’re wrong about that, Musa. The ceanndraoi and ceannàrd, so many of the àrds of the northern clans, the draoi with them … Those aren’t buffoons and rabble; they’re true warriors who will make the battle far more difficult than Velimese.”
“We’ve faced them already. We would have taken Onglse had we stayed, Commander,” Musa answered.
“Would we have?” Altan bit his upper lip, shaking his head. “Maybe we would have—but our victory would have been because those two abandoned the Red-Hand. Maol Iosa, Voada: they were the most powerful foes we faced there, and we didn’t make significant progress until they left.” He didn’t mention to Musa the fact that Voada had offered them peace, at least in his dream. “Who knows, maybe that was the Cateni’s plan all along—to keep us occupied in Onglse while those two left, gathered the northern clans, and crossed the Meadham. If so, that
was a masterful tactical stroke, and if I’d followed Great-Voice’s orders, it’d be you or Ilkur facing the ceanndraoi and ceannàrd with only half of the cohorts at your back. Still …” Altan sighed. “If they’d gone south, we could have petitioned the Emperor to send troops across the Barrier Sea and caught the ceanndraoi in a vise. Now there isn’t time. We’ll face her and the ceannàrd, and if we lose, there’ll be no stopping them at all.”
Tolga approached them, bearing Altan’s armor for the day’s journey. “Musa,” Altan said, “I want you to choose two fast riders to send back to Gediz; we need to know where Ilkur is. Tolga, I need my field desk, parchment, and pen; I have messages to write that will go with the riders …”
31
The Gathering Storm
VOADA’S ARMY RODE THROUGH a land that seemed strangely empty. All the tiny villages they passed through appeared to have been recently abandoned. No one seemed to be watching them, though their ranks continued to swell with Cateni volunteers from the countryside. Voada could hear Maol grumbling about their lack of military skills and discipline, but he had Comhnall Mac Tsagairt and the officers drilling and teaching them as the army made its slow way along the Stormwind Road toward Siran, the next significant city.
And while Maol continued to have Voada ride in his war chariot with Hùisdean driving, he spent more time now riding with Àrd Mac Tsagairt and talking with him. His discontent with Voada’s decision to press the battle with Commander Savas was obvious, even as the voices of her anamacha consoled her, telling her that this was the proper strategy and the only way to victory.
Those voices felt right. Listening to them eased the fears in her head. She consoled her fears with the thought that they were only saying what she believed herself, that she wasn’t the Moonshadow’s puppet but was actually following her own heart.
As they passed through yet another empty village, the army flowing around and through it like a swarm of bees, Magaidh came to ride alongside Voada. “It seems that all the Mundoa have fled before us, and many of the Cateni as well. Even the sheep and cows are gone.”
“Or they’ve been hidden away so we don’t eat them,” Voada answered. Magaidh gave a short laugh that collapsed quickly, and they rode on for a time in silence. Voada could sense that Magaidh wanted to say more but was holding back. She kept looking over toward Voada with her lips pressed tightly together, yet her gaze was sympathetic and open. “What is it you’re thinking, Magaidh?” Voada finally asked her over the creaking of the chariot’s wheels, the plodding of the warhorses’ hooves, and the general clamor of the army’s march. The dust they raised coated their cloaks; Voada could taste it, gritty, on her tongue. “Tell me. As a friend.”
Magaidh dropped her gaze, then lifted it up again. “You already know, Ceanndraoi.”
“Tell me again, then.”
“It’s the Moonshadow …” Her voice trailed off, her gaze dropping once more.
“You think I’m no longer in control?” Voada could feel the chill of her anamacha, invisible against the sun’s glare but very close to her. She could almost hear their voices.
“Not that.” The answer came hurriedly, with a widening of Magaidh’s eyes. “I’ve told you this before, in Trusa. I worry about you, Ceanndraoi. I worry because I care about you, because you’ve been a good friend to me and you’ve given me and shown me so much. I don’t want to see you hurt or … lost.”
Voada gestured toward the road before them. “So you think that none of this is my idea? You think that I’m following the Moonshadow’s commands?”
Voada could see Magaidh’s reluctance to answer that. The young woman swallowed hard once, then again, looking somewhere past Voada’s left shoulder as if the answer might be written in the empty air there. “I can’t know that, Ceanndraoi. Only you can answer that. But I thought … I know I heard the power of the Moonshadow when you spoke outside Trusa. I heard you speak of ‘we,’ not ‘I.’ Ceannàrd Iosa heard that as well, and Comhnall. Others, too, I suspect. We all care for you, we all love you, and we worry.”
The anamacha’s chilly presence pressed into Voada’s spine. She heard their voices, and among them that of the Moonshadow.
She could see that Magaidh was half anticipating a biting reply, but Voada forced herself to smile, hoping that it appeared at least somewhat genuine. “Magaidh, my friend. Understand this: my decisions, right or wrong, are only my own, and that’s the truth. Yes, I called on my anamacha to strengthen my voice, and yes, it was Leagsaidh Moonshadow’s ghost that I used. And it’s also true that she would have made the same decision I have, were she standing here instead of me. But I control my anamacha. I use them, not the reverse. I appreciate your concern as I appreciate your friendship and your support, but you’re worrying for nothing.” She paused, then made an effort to laugh. “And you may tell your husband to relay that message to the ceannàrd as well. The Moonshadow hasn’t yet driven me insane.”
Voada held out her hand to Magaidh, who took it, grasping it gently. The corner of Magaidh’s lips turned up tentatively. “That’s good to hear.”
Voada returned the smile as Magaidh’s hand fell away, but she found herself reaching for the silver oak leaf that hung around her neck. If Meir hadn’t died, or if Voice Kadir and Voice-wife Dilara had been more understanding when he died and had left Orla, Hakan, and me to live in peace, I wouldn’t be here. I only wanted my family; I didn’t want to lead an army, I didn’t want to tear down the Mundoa or kill the Great-Voice. I would have been content with my lot, content to play with my grandchildren when they came. But they wouldn’t let that happen.
With those thoughts, she felt the touch of her anamacha again.
What do you mean? Voada asked the voices. Who would you have chosen?
Cold laughter answered her.
“No.” Voada only realized she’d spoken aloud when Magaidh glanced sharply at her. She might have responded, but her anamacha was still with her, Magh da Chèo overlaying her own world. The bleak, sterile landscape was full of images of past draoi who crowded around her, reaching out for her, grasping her. She tried to push them away, but they held her more tightly than before, and the chorus supporting the Moonshadow’s voice roared in her head.
“No,” Voada said again, more forcefully. “I made the decision. It was mine, and it was right. And I wield the power. You have no choice in the matter.”
More amusement roared in her head, echoing in the stormy air of the otherworld. Voada tried to shove her anamacha away again, and this time it retreated, the laughter slowly fading and the real world snapping back into focus around her.
Magaidh was staring at her, fear and sympathy in her eyes. On the harness of the chariot, Hùisdean was also looking back over his shoulder at her, his dark eyes narrowed. Magaidh, Voada knew, had sensed the anamacha’s presence within her, would have felt it moving even if she couldn’t see it in the daylight. Voada held Magaidh’s stare.
“I’m fine,” she told her. “You see, I cast out the anamacha. I didn’t let them hold me. They obey me, those within. With Elia’s help—and yours, Magaidh—we’l
l have a victory, and all of Albann will be ours again, as it should be.”
“Yes, Ceanndraoi,” Magaidh answered, her voice careful. “With Elia’s help. And should you need mine for any reason, know that I’ll be there for you. Always.”
Voada smiled at her and touched her face with her hand. “You’re worrying about nothing,” Voada told her. “We’re fine.”
Altan rode into Siran to huzzahs from the Mundoan populace and sullen, resentful glances from the Cateni. Armed and mail-clad guards were prominent on the streets, patrolling in groups of three or four. The town appeared to be ready for a siege, with earthen ramparts raised in a broken circle around the central town structures.
The Voice of Siran was a nervous, slight man of middle age with a much younger wife and a gaggle of children. Altan spent a quick luncheon assuring the Voice that he didn’t need to send his family out into the country just yet, nor did he need to imprison or execute the Hand of Siran for the fact that he was Cateni (“… but he is a distant cousin of this Ceanndraoi Voada”). He informed the man that the army would encamp well outside Siran as long as the Voice could promise that sufficient provisions would be sent to the troops who were protecting him, and afterward Altan rode out with Musa and a small company of soldiers to survey the land just east of the village.
“Here,” Altan said a few turns of the glass later, raising his hand to halt the others. They had come down the main road through a wood, entering a narrow defile between two steep-sided and wooded hills. Ahead of them were two large, long meadows flanking the road, rising and spreading out well to either side as they climbed the next rise toward another forest a good two turns of the glass away on foot. “This is where we’ll wait for them.”
A Fading Sun Page 30